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by liriodendron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriodendron/pseuds/liriodendron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock opens his mouth to ask how he can make the pain go away, but he realizes halfway through that he doesn't know how one asks such a thing, so the only word that escapes his lips is, "John..."</p><p>There is a sharp intake of breath at his name, and then John says in a voice like a broken radio, "Take me home, Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Trespasses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/840702) by [wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts). 



> This is a gift, inspired by a prompt, for my lovely beta reader wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up). Go read her story! Obviously unbeta-ed, or it wouldn't be much of a present. ;~)

John emerges from the hospital doors at long last and Sherlock doesn't need to ask what happened. John won't meet his eyes, he just walks up to Sherlock and is still, shoulders slumped and defeated, gaze downcast. Then he just crumples, collapsing in on himself, seeming very small all of a sudden. He falls against Sherlock's chest as if the effort to remain standing has suddenly become too much, unable to support even his own slight weight.

Sherlock freezes, stiff and unsure of what to do as the moist heat of John's breath, heavy and uneven, seeps through his shirt. The silent heaving of John’s chest presses into him and he finds that his hand, almost of its own accord, is wrapping round the nape of John's neck and drawing him closer. John goes limp at his touch, letting go, melting into the embrace and Sherlock puts his other arm around John’s shoulders, holding him up awkwardly.

John's face is wet, soaking through fabric until it clings to Sherlock’s breast. His chin comes to rest on the top of John’s head as John fists a hand so tightly into his coat that Sherlock thinks he could rend the heavy wool of it in his grief.  
  
Sherlock isn't good with feelings, but he knows what is radiating off of John right now is pure pain, and it hurts him. He is surprised that it hurts him, and how much. He is surprised that he would do literally anything to make it stop, even if he himself had to keep on hurting. He opens his mouth to ask how he can make the pain go away, but he realizes halfway through that he doesn't know how one asks such a thing, so the only word that escapes his lips is, "John..."

There is a sharp intake of breath at his name, and then John says in a voice like a broken radio, "Take me home, Sherlock."

He doesn't mean the house he's shared with Mary for the past two years, with the tidy back garden and the gated drive. He means Baker Street. He means wherever Sherlock is.

Sherlock has never seen John like this before - weakened, lost, unmanned. He has the urge to scoop John up like a child and carry him back to the flat, put him in his own bed and smooth the hair off his forehead as Mummy used to do when he was small. But instead he says obediently, "Yes, John," and hails a taxi. John allows himself to be led out of the car and up the stairs. He sags into his old chair, untouched for years now even though Sherlock has been in and out of the place throughout that time. John’s jacket and shoes are still on and he makes no move to remove them.

John still won't look at him. He's staring straight ahead, unfocused and withdrawn. Sherlock stands beside, uncomfortable again after their moment of intimacy, confused about whether he most wants to resume it or to flee. He does neither, just waits and fidgets with his hands behind his back.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" he asks, remembering that he's heard people say that in similar situations.

John shakes his head mutely, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No!" The loudness of John's response shocks them both and they subside into silence again. After minutes, hours, decades, John finally says in a barely audible whisper, "Do you know what the worst part is? I mean, aside from it being my fault and aside from the fact that I think I might have made every day we had together a little bit more painful for her?"

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that other than, "No, I don't."

John clenches his hands into fists and finally lets his eyes meet Sherlock's. "It's that as much as this hurts, it doesn't hurt half as much as when..."

He trails off, and Sherlock blinks rapidly, eyes scanning. "When?" he asks innocently, thinking it must have to do with Afghanistan.

"As when you died."

Sherlock locks onto John like a laser beam, but John has turned away again. His mind reels. John has been like this before, this shell, this open wound, this man so far away from the John Sherlock has come to rely on that it is literally dizzying, and it was because of Sherlock. He caused it and he wasn't even there to take John home afterward.

He slowly moves until he is in front of John and drops to his knees before him, inches away. John watches him silently, taking him in without comment or expression. Unsure of why he's moved to do so, Sherlock reaches down and begins to unlace first one of John's shoes and then the other, pulling them off gently and setting them aside. He peels off John's socks one at a time and takes John's bare feet in hands almost as large as they are, cradling them reverently for a moment before replacing them on the floor and laying his head on John's knees in a posture of submission and grief, lost for a way to express his regret.

The seconds tick by like hours before he feels a hand in his hair, a finger tracing the line of his ear, and then suddenly John's face is next to his own, almost brushing his cheek.

"Sherlock..." he manages, and Sherlock quivers at the hot, sweet breath on his skin. John shakes his head, like he can't say any more, and just leans down that extra inch and presses his lips to the side of Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, swallowing hard. "Tell me how... tell me what..."

John's hands are suddenly on his waist, pulling Sherlock up into the chair with him, Sherlock's legs having just enough room to settle around John’s thighs as the shorter man buries his face in the hollow of Sherlock's throat. A soft cry escapes Sherlock's perfectly bowed lips against his will and John whispers, "Be with me. Please. If only just once."

Sherlock has never been this close to another person, never felt the warmth of another man against his skin like this, never smelled sweat and tears, never been aware of the blood coursing through another’s veins, pulsating against him insistent and irresistible. And he never dared to hope, even if he had allowed himself to think about such things, that it would be John, his brave John, his heart and his conscience, who would pressed against him, smelling of need and desire and fear and the incomprehensible pain crushing in on both of them. 

“Please Sherlock,” John says again and Sherlock is ashamed to have made his friend beg for something he shouldn’t even have had to ask for. “I don’t think I know what’s real any more. I need to know that you’re  here, that this isn’t a cruel dream, that you…” 

John trails off and Sherlock knows he should answer him, say all the half formed thoughts and feelings that John needs to hear from him, but he’s frozen, overwhelmed, still a little disbelieving. At last he nods infinitesimally, afraid that if he moves too much the moment will pop like a soap bubble and leave him alone again, afraid that John is the one who isn’t real. 

Then John makes a sound that is halfway between a whimper and a moan into the soft skin of Sherlock’s throat and it is so _very_ real, it reverberates through him, a note coursing along a too-tight violin string, growing stronger and purer as it goes and at last settling in the pit of his stomach and sending shockwaves out into his extremities.   

Sherlock reaches up and touches John’s temples, haltingly stroking the silver at them – silver that seemed to have sprung into existence a month ago at his return, though logically he knew it had had ample time to develop in his absence. There are new lines on John’s face, too, more than there should be, as if the three years had been ten, as if this past day had been a thousand.

“Did I do this?” he whispers, and John looks away; a kindness to not speak the answer they already know. Sherlock casts about for words of apology, but can find none adequate to the magnitude of what has been lost, for John, for him. He bows his head instead, bringing their foreheads to touch, slotting his nose against John’s nose, feeling the nostrils flare against his own, their lips only micrometres apart.

John’s arms are tight around his waist, and Sherlock thinks he could stay like this forever, if that’s what John wants from him, even as he feels heat growing between his legs and begins to ache with it. He stays perfectly still, waiting for John to show him what he wants.

After an eternity, John tilts his head up and allows his lips to meet Sherlock, pressing his thin ones against the fullness of Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s mouth drifts open, slackly, accepting the kiss, wishing for John to use his mouth, his body, himself however the soldier desires. John’s tongue brushes against his like some sleek, velvety animal, strong and muscular, marking out a territory in Sherlock’s mouth. The flavour of John’s saliva is rich and sweet and surpasses the most wonderful food he’s ever tasted. He presses back against John now, craving more, letting his tongue explore the landscape of John’s mouth and saturate himself with the savor of it.

John’s hips buck beneath Sherlock, and the sensation of thrusting, of swelling hardness rubbing against him, separated only by a few layers of cloth, is a physical shock and a deep groan escapes his lips. John puts a hand to Sherlock’s face, caressing a cheekbone and running fingers through the inky black of his hair. His face is still pained, but also determined and focused and something else, shining there, that Sherlock can’t quite decipher.

Sherlock’s hands grip the back of the chair for stability and he begins to lean forward again, thinking only of the taste of John in his mouth, of the softness of lips and the roughness of stubble against his face, but John stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is choked but strong. “I love you. I’ve never loved anything like I love you and when I lost you, I lost myself, and I’ve never quite found myself again since.”

Sherlock’s eyes blow wide and he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. John gives him the closest thing to a smile he’s seen since he returned and shakes his head, craning his neck up so he can take Sherlock’s mouth again, saving him the words.

A sudden urgency courses through Sherlock and he pulls at John’s cardigan, trying to unbutton it with one hand whilst gripping John’s shoulder and running teeth along John’s neck. John sides Sherlock’s suit jacket off his shoulders so skillfully that Sherlock hardly notices until it falls to the floor, and runs strong hands up under Sherlock’s aubergine shirt, mapping the lines of his back with sensitive fingers.

John thrusts against Sherlock once more, unbuttoning his shirt and devouring each new patch of white skin as it’s uncovered. Sherlock throws his head back, exposing himself to John’s ministrations, rutting into him harder and faster until it’s too much for the delicate balance in the too-small chair and they half-fall, half slip out of it, sinking down to the carpet. 

Sherlock finally gets John’s cardigan and shirt off of him, but before he can explore the new landscape John turns the tables on him, gets him on his back, shirt fallen completely open now, and begins tracing patterns on Sherlock’s chest and stomach with his tongue, hands sliding up and down his side, outlining his slim figure. Sherlock puts his deft fingers to work on John’s belt and begins to unbuckle it, and John makes a filthy sound and rolls off him on to his side, allowing Sherlock to remove his trousers, to reach into his pants and free him at last.

John’s cock is heavy in his hands and he holds it gingerly, like he’s cupping a baby bird, in awe of the fact that he is permitted this privilege, this intimacy. John grows harder at his touch, as he twists his fingers into the pale, curly hair and follows the curve of his testes, trying to memorize every facet. The scent of John curls into his nostrils, strong and musky and unapologetically male and dewy drops glisten on his slit. Without thinking, Sherlock dips his head and licks John’s tip, taking in the sharp, salty, precious liquid. John moans again and presses into Sherlock’s mouth, gentle but insistent, and Sherlock opens to accommodate him.

John fills Sherlock up, gripping Sherlock’s hair tight enough to convey his desire, his need. Sherlock winds his agile tongue around John’s shaft and snakes a hand back to stroke John’s buttocks, softly at first then harder, massaging, stimulating the area around John’s anus without touching it, just enough to enhance the sensation of Sherlock’s steady suction, his careful tonguing. 

He glances up at John and the doctor’s eyes are closed, lips parted, in complete surrender to Sherlock but not passive, still moving into him, hips undulating and stomach tightened. Sherlock licks around his root, applying firm but gentle pressure with his lips and feels John begin to pulse beneath him, stiffening even more, his breathing jagged and fast now. Sherlock takes more of John in, wanting to consume him, ready to feel John come inside of him, to taste his release and feel it roll down his throat, but suddenly John stops, pulls himself back from the very edge and slips out of him, pulling Sherlock back up to his face.

“Not yet,” John whispers to him, taking Sherlock in his arms, pressing bare chests together, John’s hardness, wet with Sherlock’s own saliva, digging  into his stomach. John strips him of trousers and pants and at last, with one steady hand on a sharp hipbone, touches him. Sherlock quivers under his hands and feels his skin prickle, goose pimples suddenly covering his body.

John shifts down, still stroking him slowly, until he is lined up with Sherlock and can wrap his hand around both of them as if they were one flesh. Sherlock gasps at the feeling of John on him, against him, practically part of him. He lets their legs tangle together as John keeps a steadily tempo, somehow knowing just the right amount of pressure, letting speed and strength build slowly. Sherlock holds them together with one arm circling under John’s neck and the other on the small of his back, and John inches even closer until their hips are almost fused and Sherlock is amazed John can find room to maneuver between them at all.

Sherlock feels his climax begin to grow, a barely remembered sensation known only from distant teenage wankings, starting in his belly and spreading out through his pelvis, his spine, his buttocks and at last between his legs, unstoppable now. He stills and jerks and John stops his stroking and just holds them together as Sherlock shudders under his hand, hips twitching and pressing into John’s body. Sherlock can feel the warm wetness of his orgasm spreading between them, slicking their stomachs, their cocks, John’s hand. 

He begins to feel ashamed, dirty, but John forces Sherlock’s attention back to him before the emotion can penetrate. “Now,” he says, and rolls onto his back, pulling Sherlock down to him. Sherlock obliges, still trembling with his own release, wrapping his mouth around John and tasting his own semen on John’s head. John is so close, skirting the edge, and after only a few long licks, the barest amount of pressure, John is arching up, shaking, spilling himself into Sherlock and then trickling hot and pungent down the back of his mouth. Sherlock swallows, eliciting as much gratification from the taste, the sensation of John giving him everything, as he had from his own pleasure.

When John has stilled and Sherlock can go without air no longer, he releases John and then dissolves onto the floor besides him, physically and emotionally spent. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen next, but it isn’t for John to settle solemnly next him, to fit himself into the curve of Sherlock’s arm and rest his sandy head on Sherlock’s chest, to stroke Sherlock’s leg with his foot and let out a long sigh. John feels different now; the pain is still there, but it’s dulled, and the fear is gone. Any space that had existed between them, the small amount before he’d gone and the yawning chasm when he’d returned, has been erased. John feels real. John feels like his. 

He opens his mouth, wanting to express some of this, not sure where to start but knowing he should at least reciprocate John’s early confession. Before he can utter a word, however, a hand is slapped reprovingly over his mouth.

“Shhh,” John tells him, closing his eyes.

“But, I—”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” replies John, as if he’d never doubted it. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Sherlock gives a private little smile, pulls John tighter to his side, and closes his eyes, home at last.

 


End file.
